


Re/creation

by abundantlyqueer



Series: Clueverse [4]
Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-11-16
Updated: 2003-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-13 01:17:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abundantlyqueer/pseuds/abundantlyqueer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"Prosit," Franka says, tipping the rim of her filled mug against Elijah's. They each take a slug and wrestle in silence with the burn and buzz of the alcohol. "You miss him a lot," she says when she's got her voice back.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Re/creation

  
Elijah opens the door of his hotel room just far enough to identify his visitor.  
"I thought maybe you could use a drink," Franka says, holding up the bottle for his approval.  
"I never drink alone," Elijah says piously, though the corner of his mouth hitches in an amused smile.  
"I brought my own cup," Franka reassures him, displaying the plastic tooth-mug in her other hand.  
Elijah laughs and steps back from the door, welcoming her in.  
"You left pretty early," she calls, as he goes to the bathroom to acquire his own mug. She heels her boots off, sits down on the end of the bed, and cracks the seal on the bottle.  
"I had to take a phone call," he explains, returning and sitting down beside her.  
"From your boyfriend," she says casually, spilling a couple of inches of spirit into his offered container.  
"Yeah."  
"Prosit," Franka says, tipping the rim of her filled mug against Elijah's. They each take a slug and wrestle in silence with the burn and buzz of the alcohol. "You miss him a lot," she says when she's got her voice back.  
Elijah experiences a little flurry of fondness for the way she never asks a question if she can get at the same information by making a statement. He turns his head in a half-gesture of negation: not that he doesn't miss Orlando, but that there's nothing he can say that will convey to her the restless aching sense of dislocation he lives with when they're apart – which is pretty much all the time. Franka's expression turns sympathetically solemn.  
"Tell me about him," she says, her impulsive urge to comfort Elijah beating warm beneath her gravelly voice.  
Elijah blinks in surprise; he thinks about telling her how sometimes there's enough in the shadow cast by her dark hair on her neck and how the light skims her cheekbones and then disappears without trace in her inky brown eyes to make his heart twist a little in pained recognition.  
"He's just … himself, y'know?" Elijah says. "Some people get him, some really don't. He just goes right on being who he is."  
"That's a good quality to have," Franka laughs, and Elijah thinks, shit, yeah, they're similar in that way too.  
Franka tips her head to one side, brows furrowed questioningly. It's a gesture she's developed on the set: it means she's confused by the particular emotion Elijah's chosen to convey with a line or a look. Elijah realizes he's still staring into her eyes; he ducks his head, feels the crawling heat of a blush spreading up his cheeks and out to the tips of his ears.  
"He's your first boyfriend, I suppose," Franka says easily.  
"Yeah. He was the first guy I ever really – I had kind of a crush on someone, before I met Orli, but … it wasn't … nothing really happened," Elijah says, keen to just keep the conversation rolling away away away from how like Orli she seems right now.  
"Who was he?" Franka challenges.  
"Mm … Josh. Hartnett." Elijah says, addressing himself to the almost frayed-through right knee of his denims.  
Franka makes a slyly delighted 'yay' noise and claps her hands twice and bounces a little on the end of bed, and the transmitted movement under him makes Elijah very aware of the warm stirring in his crotch.  
"So you like them tall, dark haired, with big brown eyes … very handsome. Is Orlando handsome, or pretty?"  
"Neither," Elijah says, and now he can't fuckin' get his eyes off her again. "He's broken almost every bone in his face. Up close, you can see all the crooked bits, the scars."  
"Aww, you don't like how he looks."  
"No," Elijah murmurs. "I love it."  
He's got an aching hard-on and his skin is buzzing warmly and he can feel his pulse pounding in his lips and groin – all this talk about Orli and the weight and warmth of Franka's proximity are doing him in.  
"Tell me," Franka says softly.  
"I love the way … he's so dark," Elijah says hesitantly, but his fingers are already stroking down the mahogany-black curtain of her hair, because somehow they've ended up sitting facing each, hardly a foot apart. "His hair, his eyes, like … all the light just falls into him."  
He moves to trace the thin skin at the outer corner of her left eye.  
"Black is, like, total absorption of light right?" he says, almost to himself. "So, logically, all that light's got to be inside him, right?"  
"Right," Franka agrees, and Elijah detaches the mug from her grip and sets it, together with his own, down on the floor out of harm's way.  
"Makes me want to get closer, get right under the skin, get inside him … where the light is," Elijah says. He brushes his index finger across Franka's mouth, which opens fractionally as she inhales deeply, and Elijah just falls and the landing's soft against her lips, his hand cupping the back of her head for fear she'll pull away.  
Elijah pushes his tongue into her mouth, trying to feel everything at once – glance of teeth and the eager curl and swipe of her tongue and the ridged vault of her palate and the billowing softness inside her cheek – because there's just no substitute for a kiss. This long-term long-distance thing with Orli has forced Elijah to elevate masturbation to the level of an art form, but the sensation of mouth touching mouth is coursing down his nerves now like the welcome rush of junk in a half-reformed addict's veins.  
Elijah shifts his other hand from the bed to steady himself, leaning on Franka's thigh. She has that leg folded under her, and her flesh feels firm and proud through the thin leather of her pants. Elijah has a flash-fire memory of Orli, naked except for his leather jeans, dark hair hanging in a mess of curls over his black eyes, crawling on all fours up the length of the bed towards Elijah and the salt smoke taste of Orli's bare skin and the sweet jagged _pang_ of lust twisting deep down in Elijah's guts –  
\- as he slides his hand appreciatively up Franka's leather-clad thigh and rocks his mouth against hers in time to the imperious rhythm of their tongues curling around one another. Franka shifts her bodyweight towards him, closing the last remaining gap between their bodies. At the very instant Elijah becomes acutely aware of Franka's breasts pressing against his chest – insubstantially soft – his hand reaches the fold of leather delineating Franka's thigh from her groin and his fingers automatically sweep outwards and – whoa, uninterrupted curve of leather all the way to a hipbone blunted and rounded by flesh.  
Elijah pulls back, mouth open but nothing coming out, because what the hell's he going to say to her, 'you don't have a penis'? Franka looks away, sniffles, licks her lips, tucks her hair behind her ear even though it won't stay there. Elijah's seen her resort to the same chain of gestures before; they're as near to embarrassment as Franka ever displays.  
"I'm sorry," she says evenly, trying but failing to look him in the eye. "I don't know how that happened."  
"Yeah," Elijah stammers. His arousal's wearing all the rough edges off his disorientation, and he's already assuring himself that he won't be quite that immobilized by surprise next time. It's only been a couple of years, after all. He reaches for her again, eager to test his theory.  
Franka stops him, strong olive-tan fingers wrapping around his wrists. "Elijah. Don't do something you'll regret. You're better than that."  
Elijah blinks, realizes what she means, and smiles blankly.  
"Oh. That's okay. We -- "  
He stops before the words "have an understanding" can tumble out because, Jesus, how fuckin' crass does that sound? Like Franka'd be just another wreck on the littered highway of a movie-industry relationship.  
"I love him," Elijah begins again, and his fingers go back to Franka's hair, winding one gleaming lock around and around his finger until it looks like a curl. "I know he loves me, and that'll never change. We'll end up together, I just don't know when." He lets go of the pseudo-curl, watches it drop limply straight again.  
"We'll keep the other relationships to a minimum," Elijah goes on. "And only someone we can be truthful with, someone we … I love him. I want him. But I haven't even seen him face-to-face for three and a half months, with there's another five weeks to go."  
Elijah lets his gaze drop away from Franka's face.  
"We don't have to … y'know … go all the way. In fact, I'd kinda prefer if we didn't," he says quietly, risking a glance at her.  
Franka stares at him, her features brokenly composed in lines of pity and compassion and complete acceptance. She puts her arms around him again, their bodies glancing lightly against each other. Elijah's face fits the curve below her jaw, and he's so accustomed to this arrangement that he doesn't even notice it.  
"Tell me about your first time with him," Franka says very softly. "The very first time you touched him as a lover."  
Elijah makes a small sound deep in his throat, because there's no part of those memories he can touch without the remembered pleasure and wonder drenching warmly down his skin and tingling brightly along his nerves.  
"The first time I touched him … God, we didn't know anything," Elijah whispers to the warm soft skin of Franka's throat. "He'd never even looked at a guy seriously. It was all so new … for both of us."  
"It must have been strange … realizing you wanted that," Franka murmurs into Elijah's hair.  
"I guess. I don't know. Now it seems like it was always there, waiting for us," Elijah says as he strokes his fingers down between the open collar fronts of Franka's cotton shirt and finds the shallow, softened notch between her collarbones. "Waiting for us to pay attention."  
"Tell me what you did," Franka whispers huskily. "Exactly what you did."  
"We lay down together," Elijah says, and it's unclear whether he or Franka begins the movement, but they tilt and tip and they're side by side on the bed, arms looped loosely around each other and staring intently into each other's faces. "And I touched him … "  
Elijah flicks his tongue over his lips and swallows; Franka remains absolutely still, regarding him with solemn patience as his fingers stretch out across the heated few inches of space separating his hips from hers. His fingertips graze the hot smooth fold of leather between her legs and he feels her lift her thigh a little to give him better access and he pushes his fingers further into the heat and cups his hand a little and stills; not probing or petting, just holding.  
"He was hard," Franka growls, and because she refuses to let her hips move, the rest of her body flexes and stretches and clenches tight.  
"Yes," Elijah hisses, because God even if his mind somehow misplaces the memory, his skin will never forget. His palm, pressed close around the hardly-there curve of Franka's pubic bone, is aching with the ghost-contact of Orli's cock, hard ridge pushing imperiously against Elijah's hand.  
"And then … "  
"And then … he asked me if he could touch me too."  
Franka exhales a smile at that, at the sweet uncertainty betrayed by the very existence of the question.  
"Can I touch you Elijah?" she asks. "Can I touch you the way he did?"  
Elijah breathes raggedly as he removes his hand from her crotch and takes hold of her wrist and guides her hand to him, pressing her palm against the hard crest of his cock through his denim jeans, molding her fingers around himself.  
"Tighter," he whispers urgently, and Franka does it, closes her grip on him enough to make the blood surge and pound in his cock, enough to make him shudder and squeeze his eyes shut and see in the red-prickled darkness behind his eyelids the way Orli's eyes narrow and glitter every single time he finds an new edge he can push Elijah over. Elijah makes a blurry noise that might have started life as an 'oh God'.  
"And then … " Franka prompts.  
"Then … " Elijah gasps, pushing himself ruthlessly against her grip. Then, then, I don't know, he thinks. My world fuckin' came apart at the seams and …  
Elijah shoves Franka away, onto her back, and scrambles on top of her, pinning her down with his mouth on hers and his hands on her hips. Franka makes muffled sounds of aggressive appreciation, wraps her legs around Elijah's hips, and hooks her ankles together behind his back. Elijah lifts onto his hands and knees, grinding himself hard against the stretched smooth leather between her legs. Franka jerks herself upwards to meet the downwards stabbing of Elijah's hips. Their kiss is deep and messy and leaves Franka breathless when she finally breaks free from it.  
"Then you just fucked him?" she demands, half-laughing in dismay.  
Elijah stops moving.  
"I dry humped him," he grins sheepishly. "Until I came. In my jeans."  
"In this position."  
"God no. It was much more decorous," Elijah says, untangling himself from Franka's legs. He guides her to lie flat on the bed, her thighs spread but not wantonly so. He lays himself down on top of her.  
Franka quirks her eyebrow at him.  
"And you were … what? Fourteen at the time?"  
"Hey. Eighteen. And a half."  
"Can you still even come like this?"  
"Humiliatingly, I think so. But I'm definitely too old for the whole creamed jeans thing."  
"Maybe you should get more comfortable," Franka suggests wryly.  
Elijah smirks and pushes up onto his knees. He thumbs buttons out of buttonholes, palms his denims off his hips and down his thighs. Franka slides open the zipper of her leather jeans and folds the two sides outwards, peeling a glossy black fruit and revealing the creamy pink flesh inside. She shimmies her leathers and her underwear down a little and puts her hand inside, inwardly intent as she wriggles her fingers; she gasps a little when she gets things arranged just right. Elijah pushes his underwear down too, and wraps one hand around his cock.  
"Okay?" he breathes.  
Franka nods. Elijah eases down again, stifling a little sound of surprise and pleasure as he realizes the bones of her wrist and forearm give him something prominent and unyielding to align himself next to. He settles and takes her in his arms; Franka puts her free hand on his waist.  
"Like that?" Franka prompts, rocking her hips in small steady increments.  
"Mm … yeah," Elijah breathes against her ear, meeting her rhythm with smooth thrusts of his own.  
Franka shifts, her breath breaking and reforming. Her free hand tightens down on Elijah's side.  
"That's … pretty good," she laughs and hooks her pelvis a little harder under his; the weight and motion of his body, transmitted through the back of her hand, provides a pleasantly intense contact between her fingers and her clit. "Did he like it?"  
Elijah shivers and his eyes flutter closed.  
"Yeah, he - " Orli with his brow furrowed tight and his black eyes burning, yelling out in exalted disbelief. Franka's hand shifts to the back of Elijah's head, her fingers winding tight in his hair. "He was wild - " Orli thrusting up at him, on the offbeat of Elijah's rhythm so their bodies grind together hard. Franka hooks one foot over the back of Elijah's leg, her movements under him growing more demanding. "He tried to be quiet, be cool, y'know - " The long sharp edge of Orli's jaw jutting hard, the tendon snaking down the side of his throat pressing proud under the skin. Franka muffles a word Elijah doesn't understand against the shoulder of Elijah's tee shirt. "But I wanted to hear him, to know - "  
Franka surges, snatches at Elijah's mouth with her own, lips drawn back in a snarl and teeth bared. Elijah bites down into the offered kiss and they hang onto each other, driving each other harder and harder, until lack of oxygen makes Elijah finally jerk away.  
"I'm gonna come," he pants, eyes flickering half-shut, mouth twisted in a depraved half-smile.  
Franka doesn't say anything, just tightens her grip on him even more.  
"Oh God oh Jesus," Elijah pleads against Franka's mouth. "Orl -- "  
Franka feels him freeze, feels the hot convolutions in his body start to fall apart, feels him draw breath and prepare to draw away.  
"No! No!" she snaps, winding herself around him as tightly as she can, clutching at him in desperation. "It's alright baby, it's alright. I want to hear. Tell me, tell me what you want to say to him."  
Elijah makes a jagged sound like a sob, clinging to her, burying his face in her hair where it's spread on the bed cover.  
"It's alright baby," Franka insists, moving under him relentlessly until at last he moves with her, and she feels him coil again as he recaptures the intensity of the sensation.  
"Tell me," she says again, when he remains hidden against the side of her face, even when his breath begins to lose its rhythm and his body resorts to rapid jabs instead of long thrusts. "Say it. Say his name."  
"Orli," Elijah gasps against her ear, then wrenches his head up, eyes closed but directed toward her face. "Orli. I love you. I love you so fucking much. So very fucking … much."  
The last word is a shocked exhalation, and Elijah's eyes fly wide, and Franka's stunned to see the high hot steel blue of a summer sky shining empty and infinite in Elijah's eyes, and then she feels the pulsed hot flood of his semen spilling on a sliver of her stomach bared by her open jeans and she curls her own fingers and twitches them, twice, three times, and she's not even sure she's coming at first – it feels more like a bird beating its wings – but she gets it and rides the wave, lets it take the responsibility for anything that happens to fall out of her mouth, like  
"He loves you too. He loves you."  
Elijah comes to rest next to her, his eyes closed again. Franka looks at him in silence for a moment, until the world turns back into itself again.  
"Elijah."  
He opens his eyes, smiles very slightly.  
"Sorry," he says.  
"Don't be," Franka murmurs, reaching out to brush one damp dark curl off his forehead. "I'm not angry. A little envious, but not angry."  
Elijah's smile grows wider.  
"You're an amazing friend."  
"I know," Franka smirks. "And, you know, if you feel the need to -- talk about anything else, I'm here for you."


End file.
